Celtic Sister (4 page)

Raksha winced.

“I’m sorry.” Amy put her head in her hands and cried. “I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, Priya,” Raksha said in a soothing tone. “It’s okay. You did what you thought was right.”

“Did I?”

“What’s done is done.”

Raksha said nothing further as she pulled out of the parking lot and proceeded to the doctor’s office.

***

Amy approached the check-in desk after inspecting the waiting area. Three women in various states of pregnancy sat in upholstered wooden chairs. One was talking to her two-year-old. The child burst into fits of joyful laughter. Raksha sat near them and made faces at the toddler.

When the receptionist looked up, she seemed startled at first. Then she narrowed her eyes.

“Hi,” Amy said nervously. Something was wrong. Surely the receptionist recognized her. “Laura? I need to see Dr. Guthrie.”

Laura said nothing. She picked up the phone, pressed a button, and whispered into the receiver.

The carefree laughter coming from the waiting room clashed with the cold cloud forming behind the counter. Dr. Guthrie appeared, her forehead creased. Neither Laura nor the doctor seemed concerned with Amy’s welfare. Instead, they were indignant, repulsed even.

“Shall I call the police?” Laura whispered.

“Not yet,” the doctor replied. “Amy, come back please.”

Amy looked over her shoulder, searching for comfort in her friend’s eyes. Raksha was sitting in the waiting room chatting with the mother of the toddler, completely unaware of what was transpiring only ten feet away.

Amy passed through the door and followed the doctor down the hallway.

Once they sat in a room, Dr. Guthrie’s manner became a little less hostile. “I want to hear your side of the story,” she said.

My side. Brent has been here. What did he tell them?

Whatever Brent said, they believed him – no questions asked. He was the son of Beaumont Richardson. When people knew this, it was enough to give him authority. And when people didn’t recognize him, Brent seduced them with charisma.

Amy, on the other hand, often stumbled around trying to find the proper words to express herself. Right now, trembling from days of drinking, she looked tattered and ashamed.

“I had a miscarriage.”

Dr. Guthrie furrowed her brow. “Brent and Laura called all the abortion clinics within a fifty mile radius.”

Brent must have told them she’d gotten an abortion behind his back. That would explain the looks of disdain.

Dr. Guthrie continued. “No one fitting your description or stage of pregnancy signed in anywhere.”

“That’s because I didn’t have an abortion. I had a miscarriage.”

Dr. Guthrie appeared annoyed, as if Amy had just insulted her intelligence. “Why didn’t you call us then?”

“I was afraid,” Amy whispered.

“If you did nothing you are ashamed of, why would you be afraid? And why do you come in here out of the blue reeking of alcohol? I could call the police.”

“What?”

“Self-induced abortion is illegal. You could be charged with infanticide.”

Amy’s heart raced.
Ludicrous.
“This wasn’t a self-induced abortion. Brent pushed me down the stairs, and I miscarried.”

Dr. Guthrie continued as if she hadn’t heard a word Amy said. “I asked Laura to call Brent instead. If he is willing to forgive you, I’m not going to feel any obligation to call the police. You weren’t in your right mind, as he said. But we could have helped you if you called us. Avoided this terrible tragedy.”

“But
he
killed the baby—”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t carry on with that lie when Brent arrives. He has every right to have you investigated.”

This isn’t happening.

Suddenly fear displaced Amy’s disgust and outrage.

Brent is on his way.

She bolted out of the room and ran to the front. She could hear Brent’s voice before she reached the door that separated the hallway from the waiting area. Laura spoke softly.

“She’s with the doctor now.”

“It’s all right,” Brent said, his tone smooth and syrupy. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”

“I’m really sorry this happened to you. Is there anything I can do?” Laura asked.

“No. We just want to keep it quiet within the family. No need for it to leak to the press.”

“Oh, I totally understand.”

Laura looked over her shoulder and noticed Amy quivering by the door.

Just then, Dr. Guthrie grabbed Amy by the arm, opened the door, and literally shoved her toward Brent.

“There she is.” Brent sounded genuinely relieved. “Are you all right, Amy? I’ve been so worried. It’s okay. No one is mad.” The words slipped off his tongue like butter from a hot pan, all at once incinerating his crime in the eyes of the world. The ashes mocked Amy and reduced her pain to a footnote in Brent’s glowing biography.

“How dare you come here after what you did?” Amy shouted. At this point she had nothing to lose. It was either back with this monster or on to the police. She would prefer to take her chances with the police. The nightmare wouldn’t end. She longed for a bottle of whiskey and her private motel room.
Why did I agree to come here?
The idiocy of the decision weighed on her as desperation set in.
Don’t make me go back with him.

“Whoa, chickadee,” Brent said. “It’s illegal abortion. If you prefer, we can discuss this with the police.”

“I think that is an excellent idea,” a familiar, slightly-accented voice interjected.

Amy’s heart fell as she turned to look at Raksha.
Not you too.

“The police will be able to sort this out quite rightly,” Raksha said. “After reviewing your examination notes, Doctor.”

“Who are you?” Dr. Guthrie exclaimed.

“Raksha Patel. You did do a thorough examination, correct?”

The doctor glanced away.

Raksha continued. “A couple of interviews, polygraphs—”

“Polygraphs?” Brent sneered.

“Of course. She says you killed the baby. You say she did it. Someone is lying. Do you know how to fake a polygraph, Mr… uh…”

“I’ll call the police.” Laura picked up the phone. “She shouldn’t get away with it.”

“Let’s not get carried away now.” Brent sounded far less cocky.

The toddler in the waiting room squealed with delight. The other women watched the spectacle, spellbound.

Brent rounded on Raksha. “I don’t know what she told you lady, but—”

“You don’t know what she told me? What are you afraid of? What did she tell me, Brent?” Raksha seemed to thicken her accent for the sake of emphasizing his name. Amy realized that her new friend had become her champion.

She believes me.

At this point Brent was clearly intimidated. He would either back away or go into narcissistic overload. Amy feared the latter, and she wanted to run away. Although Raksha appeared perfectly capable of matching Brent’s attempts to posture and escalate, Amy began to crash. As Raksha and Brent raised their voices, memories of blood on the white tile floor inundated Amy. A delicately small body and a tiny fist. The excruciating pain. The sound of a garbage truck. Amy turned away and thought of making a dash for the door when the smiling face of a seventeen-year-old girl popped into her head.

“Emma Foster,” Amy whispered.

No one heard her.

“Emma Foster,” she shouted.

Everyone stopped talking and stared at her. The expression on Brent’s face was particularly interesting. White, filled with fear, it was almost unrecognizable as the cocky son of a bitch who threw her down the stairs.

“Excuse me,” he said, and he made a hasty exit.

Raksha shouted something in her own language at Brent’s retreating form. Then she turned her attention to Laura and the doctor. “Shame on you,” she said to them, her tone thick with contempt.

Laura and Dr. Guthrie were speechless.

Raksha escorted Amy out of the building.

“I’m taking you to my doctor,” she announced when they reached the car. “These people are a disgrace.”

***

Raksha’s doctor was a young Indian woman with serious eyes and a gentle smile. She performed an ultrasound and a pelvic exam. After inspecting Amy thoroughly, she allowed her to dress in private. When the doctor returned, Raksha followed a few steps behind. The doctor spoke softly.

“Your body is adjusting. I see no remains of the placenta and no real physical damage.”

Amy looked away.

“What’s broken is your spirit, but that will heal as well.”

“Okay,” Amy whispered, not fully convinced. The horror and the shame left scars no ultrasound would detect.

Raksha and the doctor spoke in an Indian dialect as the three of them made their way to the exit.

“Thank you, Deeta,” Raksha called as they walked away.

“Thank you,” Amy added. She climbed into the car.

Both women were silent for most of the ride home. Amy reviewed the afternoon in her mind. Bits and pieces came together and then fell apart.

“How do you know Brent’s lying and I’m telling the truth?” she asked.

Raksha took a moment to respond. “My mother used to say that Sarasvati blessed me with the gift of reading the souls of others.”

“Really?” It sounded like a powerful gift.

“That man has a very dark soul.”

Amy couldn’t help but ask. “And me?”

Raksha smiled. “You, Priya, are like a wounded bird. I know you can fly. You just need to heal.”

“If you knew I was a good person, why did you tear my room apart this morning and accuse me of being a drug dealer?”

“You think all drug dealers and addicts are bad people with dark souls?” Raksha asked. There was something both compassionate and instructional about her tone.

“I don’t know. You sure seemed to think so this morning.”

“Many wounded birds seek substances to soothe their broken spirits.”

Amy thought of her recent drinking marathon and nodded. She just needed to keep pouring in the poison until it killed all the horrible feelings inside her. It never quite completed its job, so she kept drinking. Even now her thoughts drifted to the whiskey and wine bottles Raksha never found, which were still hidden under her bed. For the first time in years, Amy wondered about her mother’s life – her sparse childhood and the young husband who had abandoned her when she was pregnant. Something fluttered in Amy’s belly and she gasped. It felt like the baby kicking, but she knew her womb was empty. The brief sensation haunted her.

“Are you okay?” Raksha asked.

“Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was merely considering the idea that when we find someone broken by addiction, maybe even selling drugs, we don’t know the whole story. My brother, Sahil, for example, was the nicest young man – a good father, a kind husband – until alcohol began to take over his life.” She paused. “Anyway, it’s his story. He can tell you in his own time.”

Amy shifted in her chair and looked out the window. She really wasn’t interested in Sahil’s story, but she didn’t want to be rude. Nevertheless, an inconsistency in Raksha’s philosophy bothered her. “So if not every drug dealer is evil, and I am a broken bird, why were you going to throw me out on the street?”

“Ah, Priya, I’m sorry. Sometimes you learn that not every bird will heal. I’m selfish, really. I don’t want to get attached. And we can’t afford to let the Shanti deteriorate into a drug dealing paradise.”

Amy couldn’t blame Raksha. Years of crying and praying and pleading did not fix her mother, so she had stopped investing her emotional energy into someone who would never change. Who knows how many drug addicts Raksha had seen dragged away by the police only to show up on the streets again? It would be exhausting to try to save them all. Of course it made sense, what Raksha was feeling, but the woman had become her champion nonetheless – broken, abused bird that Amy was – with no guarantees she would ever heal.

“Thank you for sticking up for me today.”

“Of course. It didn’t really require any effort,” Raksha admitted. “Once that man got under my skin I could have carried on all afternoon.”

Amy laughed. “Very few people stand up to him when he gets like that. So thank you.”

“No thanks necessary.”

They continued in silence for several minutes.

“Priya?” Raksha said.

“Yes?”

“Who is Emma Foster?”

“I don’t know,” Amy replied. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Amy really didn’t know the girl.

“Hmm.” Thankfully, the kind woman didn’t demand more information. “Well she sure ruffled his feathers.” Raksha laughed, her previously acute intuition failing to see the gravity of the idea that a man like Brent could have his feathers ruffled by a name.

Now was the perfect opportunity to bring up the missing girl, do some research on the computer with Raksha, and get the police involved. Obviously Brent was hiding something. The subject terrified him.

Speak,
Amy pleaded with herself, but the words never came. Brent was gone. Amy felt safe. Emma Foster was her silver cross, the name that kept Brent in the shadows. If Amy came forward now, there would be an investigation. And there would be Brent over and over again – at the police station, in the courtroom, in the newspapers. For just this tiny moment, Amy’s life was quiet, and she longed to keep it that way. The weight of the selfishness made her think of the whiskey under the bed.

“Are we almost home?”

Raksha smiled. “Just around the corner. Already feeling like home with us?”

As a sense of belonging warmed Amy’s spirit, her guilt began to dissipate. “Yes, I guess so.”

“You certainly settled yourself in that room deep enough. That place stank, if you will forgive me for saying so. I asked Rosa to clean up while we were gone.”

Amy felt a slight panic. Were the bottles well hidden from view? Surely the housekeeper wouldn’t be on her hands and knees. Then Amy relaxed. This wasn’t a college dorm inspection. Rosa wouldn’t take the bottles even if she saw them.

When they turned into the parking lot, Amy saw Rosa leaving her room and closing the door.
Perfect.
Just enough time to have a couple of drinks before joining the Patel family for dinner.